


Peace in Pieces

by inkcharm



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Mutilation, Pain, Post-Canon, Recovery, Spoilers, Trespasser - Freeform, Trespasser DLC, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkcharm/pseuds/inkcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TRESPASSER SPOILERS, slight divergence from Trespasser canon: What happens when the pain of the mark becomes too much for Lavellan to handle until she meets someone to help? --- The mark is impeding her ability to survive, to fight. Where it merely used to hum, it now burns and screeches and makes her bones crack from the inside. It's affecting her too much in the wrong way. So Ivoreth Lavellan makes a decision on the way to the Exalted Council: The anchor has to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ivoreth

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Trespasser DLC Spoilers, so please do not read if you wish to remain spoiler free. 
> 
> Slight canon divergence: What happens when the pain of the mark becomes too much for Lavellan to handle until she meets Solas?
> 
> The different chapters will focus on different characters and how they deal with the fallout of what happens. 
> 
> My Inquisitor is Ivoreth Lavellan. Sometimes her friends call her Ivo. Varric calls her Ivy.

It needs to go.

 

In the end she makes that choice with an ease that horrifies her.

 

Here's the thing – Ivoreth Lavellan has grown up among the Dalish. It's not entirely uncommon for people to lose a limb. Step into a bear trap the humans hid a little too well. Misjudge the strength of a branch while climbing. Underestimate a hungry wolf. It happens. The healers are good, but they can't always save a hand or leg or ear, meaning that survival is more likely through amputation.

 

She's not a healer.

 

The mark is impeding her ability to survive, though. Where it only used to hum when her left arm extended into a blade of magical energy, it now burns and screeches and makes her bones crack from the inside, or that's what it feels like at any rate. She's sitting by the fire, glad for once that Cole isn't around right now to help by echoing her thoughts out loud. Ivoreth appreciates him a lot on any normal day, but this isn't something she wants him to hear, really.

 

Once they're at the Winter Palace… it will have to go. Or well. Maybe after the Council. Josephine would have a fit if Ivoreth made herself a one armed scandal. Sweet, sweet Josie...

 

“Try this, boss.”

 

She feels tiny next to the Iron Bull, and she feels larger than life next to him, too, knowing that for all his brute force he's tender and caring for her when it's what she needs the most. What they share isn't just ropes and suspension and a delicate balance between pleasure and pain. He makes her stay upright, sometimes even when she thinks she'd rather not. Out of the corner of her eyes she spots Varric shooting Bull a concerned glance. Cassandra sits up as if to speak.

 

“Kadan.”

 

The lower pitch of his voice reminds her that she hasn't actually reacted, jostles her out of her contemplations. Ivoreth glances at him now, at the bread and cheese he's holding out. Right. Food. There's concern in Bull's voice, and a warning. If he feels she's crumbling, he'll pull her apart back in their bedroom, and piece her back together by hand. Ivoreth shivers.

 

Oh, she loves him, but even now it feels as if the bones from her fingertips to her elbow are creaking, ready to snap at any moment, and she can't seem to feel her usual desire. The campfire is bathed in eery green for a moment. She grimaces and takes the food with her right hand awkwardly.

 

“Shit, Ivy...” Varric looks heartbroken when he can't think of anything witty to say to lift the mood.

 

They're all painfully aware that the mark's been spreading rapidly, up to her elbow now. Given another month at the most it'll have reached her shoulder. And with every passing day, she's losing control of her arm, becoming a hindrance in battle and feeding the voices who deem her a danger to all of Thedas.

 

Still, she forces a wry smile. Won't do her friends and loved ones the dishonor of claiming to be fine, but muses: “The mark's just trying to kill me, but my mind's still my own. Don't worry.” 

 

But they will, and they all know it. The Iron Bull would cut a path through anything threatening her well-being, but this isn't a foe he can fight with wit or strength. Varric, she knows, remembers his how red lyrium affected his brother. Cassandra feels useless, unable to shield her from this as she was unable to shield Divine Justinia from the same. Back in camp, the others are worried just as sick in their own ways.

 

It needs to stop. It's affecting them too much in the wrong way. Once their salvation, the mark is now a deadly thing not only to her, but those she loves as well.

 

Three days outside of Halamshiral, a Qunari nearly runs Ivoreth through when she summons the spirit blade and loses her grip on the magic under the onslaught of pain spreading up her palm, into her arm. The spirit blade dissipates, and vicious green light crackles over her arm instead. Ivoreth's fist weakly bumps against the qunari's breast plate as her arm jerks through the motion it started, and she is trying too hard not to fall to her knees in agony to really be aware of the axe on the down swing. Most qunari, she's learned early on, are not phased by her mark. Not enough to hesitate, at least.

 

He falls to a shadow looming over Ivoreth. The mountain she flows around, steady rock in her wild currents. Turns out good things happen when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. The Iron Bull grunts when he pulls his blade out of the opponent's skull. The body twitches, and they might have laughed and bumped their fists on any other day to try and cover the weight of him chopping up his former kin. But Ivoreth is on the ground now, clutching her left arm and making animal noises through her clenched teeth.

 

The pain is unbearable, feeling as if her arm is ripping itself in two starting at her palm and just going up and up and up until it hangs in useless ribbons, shattered bone fragments embedded in shredded flesh. Through a veil of tears she can see her arm being entirely whole, but it doesn't feel like it, and it's when she sees her fingers bend back impossibly under the strain of her muscles seizing up that Ivoreth realizes with clarity seemingly impossibly in this haze of agony that it needs to go.

 

She won't survive to help anyone with how the Mark is progressing. It will get her killed in battle, or worse, it will get one of her friends killed when she's unable to fight with them, for them. So she screams her throat hoarse, fights the hands trying to hold herself still, fights the pain in order to lock eyes with the Iron Bull, because his gaze is certainly enough to tie her down for just a moment, to give her strength and calm and make her voice as steady as she can only keep it under his command.

 

“At the elbow. Please. _PLEASE._ ”

 

Cassandra moves between them, breaks the connection, and Ivoreth howls with the pain when the Seeker grabs her, too far gone to notice her friends' despair. “We will get you to Halamshiral, Ivo, and we will fix this.”

 

And Cassandra so rarely employs the nickname, that where Ivoreth not close to passing out, she would delight and mercilessly tease her friend for being sweet.

 

Instead, she begs for release for the first time in her life, voice breaking on her scream as she breaks, too.

 

“ _KATOH._ ”

 

And ever faithful to their agreements, the Iron Bull shoulders Cassandra out of the way without hesitation, and brings his blade down swiftly to end what has become too much.

 


	2. Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's gone. Lavellan is pale as the sheets she's resting under. Her black hair and vallaslin contrast sharply, and so does the speck of dried blood on the bandage around the stump of her arm. Just… gone. Cassandra won't rest until she knows Ivo truly lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra's POV. 
> 
> Chapter 1 has been edited slightly to make this fit better into the Trespasser timeline. This is now pre arrival in Halamshiral, and therefore a slight canon divergence.

It's gone.

 

Lavellan hasn't woken up yet, though Cassandra tries her hardest to spur her eyes into fluttering open by sheer force of her frown alone. The Seeker hasn't slept since they brought the Inquisitor back to their base camp almost two days ago. Hasn't slept since she sent a messenger ahead to Halamshiral to alert the Council of their delay, with a feeble excuse and a private message to Divine Victoria. Hasn't slept since the Iron Bull shoved her aside to bring his blade down upon this wisp of a woman.

 

She would have run him through there and then if not for priorities demanding she take care of Lavellan first. Her Inquisitor, her charge, and most importantly her  _friend_ . And the Iron Bull  _dared_ … 

 

It hardly matters now. Not when Lavellan has yet to pull through the  violent  amputation of  half  her  left  arm. Cassandra considers the qunari a friend, all initial distrust aside, but she's willing to admit that she's hard-pressed to forgive his actions. There would have been other options available,  better options …

 

But the truth is that Lavellan herself asked for what he did, and therefore it's not Cassandra's place to judge. She's glad the lack of sleep keeps Lavellan's broken pleas out of her ears. The unfamiliar word, katoh, that made the Iron Bull move swiftly and without hesitation...

 

It doesn't mean she won't let him feel her disapproval, at least for a while. Let him at least hesitate the next time he intends to damage her Inquisitor, her charge, her  _friend_ . 

 

It's _gone_.

 

Lavellan is pale as the sheets she's resting under. Her black hair and vallaslin contrast sharply, and so does the speck of dried blood on the bandage around the stump of her arm. Just… gone.

 

Well. Partially.

 

They wrapped it up and took it with them, and now it's in the hands of the Arcanist to be examined. They need to know if it can be burned safely. If a trace of the Anchor remains… better not leave these things to chance. Sera's complaining But Cassandra has to be honest in this regard: She almost doesn't care. What she cares about is hovering around Lavellan's quarters until the elf wakes up again.

 

She won't rest until she knows Ivo truly lives.

 

The healers are doing the best they can, but blood loss and shock have taken their toll on the young elf. She's gone through so much, and life seems keen on being rough with her. This situation just  takes the proverbial cake. Ugh. 

 

The worst part, Cassandra thinks, is that she was conscious for a while after losing the limb. Even raised the bleeding stump above her head and looked at it as though it held the answers to unknown questions. And then she started screaming… 

 

Cassandra can't claim she's ever seen Varric of all people clam up so much, but she can't blame him. They met him on the road to Halamshiral, and though he claims mere coincidence, Cassandra isn't convinced. She hasn't been a seeker for nothing, and the Iron Bull agrees that for once, Varric's lies are poor. Not that he tries with this – no one needs him to confirm out loud that he was quite eager to strap Bianca to his back and fall back into their old team.  Cassandra suspects it has something to do with Hawke yet having to make it back from Weisshaupt. 

 

She sort of wonders if that means Fenris is already back in Kirkwall, full of longing and yearning an d troubled green eyes and...

 

There's a soft noise from the bed that has Cassandra bolting upright in her seat.  But it's just that, a soft noise, air spilling from slightly parted lips. She has yet to wake, and her arm is gone.

 

There are more pressing concerns, and she curses herself for letting her tired mind wander on the roads of novels she wishes Varric would write if only to sate her own, private curiosity.  What needs to be her main, no, her only concern right now is the ashen woman lying on her cot, lost in the deep sleep of a body trying to recover from trauma. 

 

The inside of the ten t is dark, and the heavy flaps muffle sounds coming from outside. Cassandra feels as though she's still half asleep. 

 

“Maker,” she mumbles, rubs at her eyes. There are likely circles there, as dark and purple as the cloth beneath her breast plate. She is so tired, but how can she sleep right now? None of them do, she knows as much. The Bull spends his time split between quietly occupying the other side of the tent, and sparring just outside their camp to stay awake. Varric writes plenty of letters, but she can often here him shuffling past the tent flap, not quite daring to enter. They're all afraid of bad news. 

 

Cassandra feels like a failure all over again, truth be told. This isn't the first time she's failed to protect her charge, but more than being her Inquisitor, Ivoreth has managed to become a close friend. Cassandra is quite honored to call her that. Such a spirited woman, bright eyes and eager to see the world. Quite delighted to crawl through bogs and deserts and decrepit ruins, and always eager to test her skill in battle. 

 

It's a wonder her and the Iron Bull haven't adopted dragonlings yet, to be honest. 

 

The contrast makes seeing her lie still all the worse, to be honest. There's a joy of life to Ivoreth Lavellan. She's a swift stream, always in emotion, gentle and soothing as she bubbles along, but always ready and willing to turn into a raging river full of treacherous currents. 

 

Why, yes, Cassandra has read too many of Varric's books. The flowery prose is invading her thoughts. Not that she could ever put something so delicate to paper. 

 

Lavellan looks delicate on her sick bed, which is… all kinds of wrong. This woman, for all that she appears frail with her willow thin body, is anything but delicate. Cassandra has never seen such strength of will, such drive. She doesn't know much about Dalish customs, but from what Ivoreth has shared, Cassandra can believe that she was on the path to become a Keeper; a leader and protector of her clan. It's a role she's now taken on for all of Thedas. 

 

And the ingratitude that has sparked infuriates Cassandra. She feels protective of her charge, her friend, and nothing vexes her quite like  the knowledge that there's nothing she could have done to protect Lavellan from the mark upon her hand. She could have been more insistent, perhaps, that they wait until Halamshiral to deal with it, where a proper amputation would have been available – it would have also given Cassandra more time to talk the elf out of such foolish endeavors. Though perhaps Lavellan knows her own body best, truly, and perhaps there would not have been a better way. The agony must have been unspeakable for her to be so sure of this step. 

 

Perhaps Cassandra shouldn't blame herself for not being able to stall this drastic measure, but for being unwilling to consider it long before it came to this. 

 

She's seen battlefield amputations, and most importantly she's seen them gone wrong. They could have done this back in Skyhold, when the Anchor first started troubling Lavellan. When she'd occasionally jump as if something had pricked her palm. When it wasn't yet so bad to make her beg the Iron Bull to cut it off in the middle of nowhere, three days away from the Exalted Council.

 

Maker, Cassandra is going to have at every foolish noble who dares to come at Lavellan. She's not the Right Hand of the Divine anymore, but she's the Inquisitor's friend and protector, and the first Orlesian to pity the poor rabbit is probably going to have to have Cassandra arrested for breaking their nose. 

 

The former Seeker sighs, sits forwards and rubs her temples. 

 

She's tired, and she wants to do more than sit by Lavellan's bedside and stare at her chest, praying it will keep rising and falling steadily. The healers don't understand that their reassurances are not enough, that Cassandra needs to see proof of life. 

 

“Stop… it.” 

 

This time, Cassandra nearly topples out of her chair. 

 

It's almost laughable, the way her head whips around to stare at the tent flap – still, unmoved, before she thinks to look at the cot again, and… sure enough, there are gleaming pinpricks of green just visible in the semi-dark of the tent. Lavellan's eyes are more closed than open, and Cassandra is on her feet. Miraculously, she barely sways and manages to stay on her feet. 

 

“You're awake,” she exclaims, which, yes, is not her brightest observation. But relief makes her voice light and breathy. She needs to summon the healers, she needs to summon Bull – Lavellan is awake, truly awake, there is no need to fantasize about hurting the qunari anymore, he didn't actually manage to kill her friend – she needs to tell Varric, she needs to sit down again, because she's somewhat dizzy. Still she barks something to the guard positioned outside the tent, and it must have been clear enough, because she hears him rushing away. In the gloomy tent, pale fingers twitch and a hand reaches out to Cassandra. She grasps it on instinct, and tries not to notice how weak Lavellan's grip on her is right now. 

 

Ivoreth licks her lips, chapped and pale safe for the black line of vallaslin that travels from her lower lip to her chin and down her throat. “ Can't sleep with… with all your frowning. So loud...” 

 

Of course. Of course she'd wake up and try to make light of it all. Cassandra is torn between making a disgusted noise and pretending like she's not relieved, and strangling Ivoreth, which seems a bit of a waste after staying by her bedside for nearly two days praying for her eyes to open. Two days were nearly enough to forget the elf can be as infuriating as she is endearing, and oh, Maker, Cassandra loves her friend so. 

 

Bloodless lips part, but now she's prepared, and all business, so Cassandra doesn't let her friend ask. “Almost two days. We got you back to camp, you're in good care. The Divine has been notified of our delay.” Lavellan's nose crinkles. She doesn't quite grasp why so many people have stopped calling Leliana by her name, but then she's also still not used to being called Inquisitor as if the title was a name either. “I… did not hurt the Iron Bull. Though I will have you know I wanted to.” 

 

“Such restraint...” There's something pleased in the quirk of the elf's mouth. Something in Cassandra's chest loosens slightly. Too many people lie still after battlefield amputation. She lacks the words to express how it feels to see more than just Lavellan's chest moving. “Water…?” 

 

And no, Cassandra will absolutely not let her sit up on her own.  Frankly, now that her eyes are open and she doesn't look like she's dying anymore, it's easier to admit that Lavellan is an idiot who can't take care of herself. She'd probably forget about her arm, try to put weight on the left and topple over, and Cassandra isn't going to stand for that. So she puts an arm around this foolish woman and props her up carefully before taking the wooden cup on a table besides the cot and holding it to Lavellan's lips. Sipping the water means she can't talk back, which Cassandra appreciates. What better time to chide her for her life choices than now? How foolish to yell at Bull, when she can now direct her tension at the actual culprit. Cassandra holds her up, tips her head slightly so she can blink up at the top of the tent, focus on a crooked seam there. Her eyes are burning. Must be the lack of sleep. 

 

“How could you not tell me it was this bad?” comes out of her mouth first, and she sounds much less harsh than she hoped for. Maker, she's gone soft on Lavellan. “To just have him… chop it off in the field… I didn't. I didn't even _know_ it was this bad.” Ivoreth shaves one side of her head. The stubble tickles at Cassandra's chin when the elf turns her head away from the water and into Cassandra's hold. It could be mistaken for a hug, if the Seeker did hugs. Which she doesn't. Her hold on Ivoreth tightens a little.  To make sure she can stay upright. Really. Ugh. “You could have… and where would we be, then? Don't ever do something like that again.” 

 

Oh, and she can practically feel the smirk.  'Why would I do that again? I don't fancy chopping off my other arm', or some infuriating line like that. Cassandra d oesn't even have to look at Lavellan. Foolish, foolish, dearest woman. Cassandra's shaking. It's with indignation she tells herself. It's not tension and worry bleeding out of her. 

 

Maker, Lavellan could have  _died_ , there on the bloodied grass, on the way back on the improvised stretcher, here on the cot. 

 

“Thank you.” It's the softest whisper, almost too low for Cassandra to make out. But it's there. Hangs between them. She draws back, because perhaps keeping her composure will be easier while looking at Lavellan. Except no, when they look at one another, one half awake and the other half unconscious, she can feel that her brows are officially pulled together in concern, not disapproval. And Lavellan knows, because she's a horrible person like that. Ivoreth's eyes are as wet as Cassandra's, but she manages a smiles It's tired, shaky and weak, and all Cassandra needed to see in the past two days. “Cass… you… look like shit.” 

 

Ivoreth will insist, later, that these were the first words out of her mouth when she woke up. And Cassandra will grunt and frown and let people believe it. It's better this way, when only Lavellan knows that Cassandra damn near almost cried with relief when she woke up. Better when only her Inquisitor, her charge, her friend knows how soft Cassandra can be behind her shield. 

 

It keeps both of them safe, after all. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for updates. Kudos, comments, suggestions and feedback of any kind are much appreciated!


End file.
